


Unpaid Overtime

by Dusty_Forgotten



Series: Mike Schmidt is Done with Your Shit [5]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3182753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mike Schmidt takes a day off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpaid Overtime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amazingspaceship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amazingspaceship/gifts).



“Maybe you should find another job.”

“Jesus, mom, you sound like my therapist.”

She tilts her head, worrying her hands. “When did you get a therapist?”

You stare open-mouthed for a moment, then shake your head. “It’s a figure of speech.” you lie. You’ve been going to Dr. Fischbach for over a month now. “Look, let’s just get dinner.”

“But I’m having dinner with Fran today, Mikey.”

Fran’s been dead for a half year. “Yeah, uh, she called to cancel. Last night. You were asleep.”

“Why was Fran up that late?” she wonders as you help her down the two steps in the garage and the passenger’s seat of the family sedan. She can drive fine, even if she does get lost sometimes, but you’ve always driven her.

“Uh, stomach bug.”

“Oh, okay...” she replies, staring out the window. “...Where are we going?”

“Dinner, mom.” you reply. She asks four more times before you get there.

Over dinner, she asks about college a lot because you’re not going to college and you don’t intend to, which you find odd until she asks if you’re still following that network security degree, and you realize she thinks you’re your brother again. He lives in Utah, hasn’t visited since he left, so you play along. She probably won’t remember. Besides, who wouldn’t prefer the one with a Bachelor’s and stable career to the pizzeria night guard? She probably won’t remember.

“He works so hard...” she mumbles.

“Who, Tom?” You pick the fry with the most ketchup. “I’m sure he’s fine. He loves his job, the stupid friggin’ jerk...” you trail off.

She looks more confused than normal. “No, Tom. Mikey.”

Your eyebrows go up. “Oh, right, Mikey. Little Mikey. How is he?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs, concerned, “he’s in his room so much.”

“Well, he’s at work when you’re asleep, so he’s asleep when you’re up. It’s hard being a night guard.”

“Is that what he does? Oh, I’m so happy! I thought he worked in fast food.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. He’s the night guard at a kid’s pizza place.”

“Why do they need a security guard at night?”

You laugh a bit self-deprecatingly. “Oh, you’d be surprised. But hey, he’s the only person to keep the job for more than a week. He’s been there a month a half, come Monday. What is it, Sunday?” you ask, checking your watch. There’s no reason to check your Batman analog watch for the date, but it’s a habit. “I’ve got work tonight. You done?” You point to her picked-apart sandwich.

“Huh? Oh, oh yes. I, I can’t eat that much bread...”

“That’s fine.” you assure, and grimace at the check. That’s a pretty significant portion of what you made this week. You’re glad your mom doesn’t eat much anymore.

“Sunday?” she asks, and you pause in counting out the cash and deciding on exactly how low of a tip you can get away with without being a total cheapskate (even if you are a total cheapskate).

“Yeah, mom, it’s Sunday.”

“You work on Sundays?”

“Yeah mom, it’s 1993, people work on Sundays.”

“So you don’t have any days off?”

You close the little secret booklet they put your check in, stand, and help your mom up. “No, I guess not. I mean...”

When you first got your schedule it was for Mondays through Fridays, but you came in Saturday out of curiosity and got and overtime. On Sunday you got fired (for “odor”, yeah, let Phone Guy do your job and see if he doesn’t piss himself too the first couple weeks). You still get the overtime checks.

On Saturdays.

...

Is there any reason you’ve been working Sundays?

“Mikey?”

Her voice jolts you out the daydream, and you smile because she got your name right. “You know what? I’m taking the night off.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! You deserve it.”

You get home a little after five, because old people do everything earlier than you’re used to, including dinner. You play Doom for a few hours (to Danger Zone, of course), take a nap, play more Doom, and end up reorganizing your Freddy wall. Then you just stand by the door and flick the lights, trying to see if the poster in your room also makes you hallucinate, or if it’s just the pizzeria. You figure you’ve wasted enough time, so you check your watch to see if you can sleep yet without risking messing up your sleep schedule, even though you’re really not tired.

It’s only ten-thirty. You could still get to work with enough time to fix Foxy’s paw. Y’know. If you wanted to. Which you totally don’t, that place is awful.

Totally awful, you think as you look at the drawings. You’re just worried, is all. You have no idea what the animatronics could do without someone there to supervise them. They could get out, and hurt people. You’d be responsible.

You put on Eye of the Tiger, and get ready for work.


End file.
